


Days of Wine and Roses

by Prosperine



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Being blackout drunk is bad kids, But it's a fun plot device, Drinking, Fluff, Happy Ending, I had an idea and I ran with it, I promise, It was for the angst, M/M, Mentions of Russo-Japanese War, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romantic descriptions of Paris, They're both awkward and in love, did not edit, historical-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26641264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prosperine/pseuds/Prosperine
Summary: 1905: The end of the Russo-Japanese War and the first encounter between Victor and YuuriThrough a series of scenes over the next four years, they find themselves unable to keep from falling in love as they meet again and again.  Despite the pressures of their lives and the time they live in, each finds himself drawn to the other and the hope of forever.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51





	Days of Wine and Roses

**Portsmouth, New Hampshire, September 1905**  


Victor was bored.  


He had been bored on the train, and he had been bored on the ship, and he had been bored on the second train, and he was nothing but bored, bored, _bored_.  


Stupid treaty. Stupid negotiations. Stupid war.

The only good thing about this whole trip was the boy in the Japanese delegation with the perfect ass. Not that Victor could give it the study it deserved - he was part of this stupid delegation because he’d examined too many perfect asses in St. Petersburg. Well, that wasn’t the only reason; according to the doctors, Victor was not only a sodomite, but he also suffered from severe melancholia. The tsar himself had made Victor come on this trip just to force him out of Russia for a few months as though that would cure everything in one fell stroke. 

Victor’s eyes wandered to the boy again. Unlike Victor, he appeared riveted by the negotiations, speaking in rapid Japanese, English, _and_ Russian and bouncing between them as he translated with enviable ease. Maybe Victor should learn Japanese. Then he could convince the tsar to let him go on the next diplomatic mission to Japan where he would find this boy and tell him in his own language how much he wanted him. It would show that he was taking an interest in international relations. Just maybe not the sort of international _relations_ everyone expected. Although...if it improved his melancholia, perhaps the tsar would consider allowing it. 

Quite suddenly, Victor noticed the boy’s eyes on him. And the eyes of everyone else in the room including that macho buffoon the Americans called a president. Shit. Someone must have said something important. “I’m sorry,” Victor said, sitting up, and forcing his best American accent. “Could you repeat that?” 

The Japanese boy nearly rolled his eyes as the Russian diplomat repeated to Victor a summary of their negotiations. Something about Port Arthur, which Victor knew was important, but he couldn’t remember why. He agreed with the diplomat though, assuring everyone that his esteemed uncle, Tsar Nicholas II, would approve of the decisions. 

And then Victor resumed counting down the seconds until he could sneak away from all of this and find the nearest American pub. Were they called pubs here? Maybe they were saloons. He would have to find out. It was an important matter of cultural understanding. 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 

American vodka was pathetic compared to Russian vodka. But the whiskey. That was a drink Victor could get behind. He had just ordered his fourth when someone sat across from him at the shadowed booth in the corner of the tavern. 

“Shouldn’t you be at the hotel?” 

Victor had to blink a few times to recognize the Japanese man sitting in front of him. A predatory smile spread across his lips when he did, and he raised his head, tossing long silver hair over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you?” 

“Oh, they don’t care where I go. I live in Massachusetts anyway; I’m practically a native. But a Russian prince is a different matter.” 

Victor groaned and drank the rest of his whiskey. “Why are you talking to me? Our countries were at war until four hours ago with that stupid treaty.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did I win? Are you begging for a better deal or something?” 

The Japanese man rolled his eyes. “No, actually. You lost. Badly.” 

“Mmm,” Victor said. “Rematch?” 

“You’re drunk,” the man said. “Come. I’ll get you back to the hotel, so you don’t get lost and end up murdered.”

Victor moaned, and the Japanese man lifted him from the booth. Victor assumed he also paid the tab because no one yelled as they left the tavern, which allowed Victor to thoroughly enjoy being this close to a man who smelled so good. He told him as much, and the Japanese man told him to shut up. 

The next thing Victor knew, they were in his suite at the hotel, and the Japanese man was forcing him into the bed. Victor reached around and squeezed the man’s perfect ass. “Been wanting to do that for days,” he mumbled, and the Japanese man pulled back. Damn. Victor hated being drunk. It made him say stupid things. Were they still hanging people for sodomy here? No, that was England...right? He couldn’t remember. 

“Really?” the man asked, a curious expression on his face that Victor was too drunk to figure out. 

Victor blinked at him. “Of course. You’re beautiful.” 

There was a long pause. 

“Good night, Your Highness.” 

The Japanese man shut the door behind him, and Victor realized he never learned the man’s name. 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 

**St. Petersburg, Russia, December 1906**

Yuuri was nervous. He shouldn’t have come. Everything in him said he shouldn’t have come. It was stupid. He never came to these things. He should have stayed in Paris. He was enjoying himself in Paris. Why the hell didn’t he stay in Paris? 

“Presenting His Royal Highness Prince Victor Nikiforov.” 

The Tsar’s young cousin entered the room in a breathtaking costume. He wore a blue sort of tunic that hung to his knees. Across the chest and around the wrists, it was embroidered with gold thread that caught the light as Prince Nikiforov strode into the room, commanding it with only a smile. Women flocked to greet him as he descended the stairs. _Right_ , Yuuri thought, _that was why he came._

He remembered the blue of Prince Nikiforov’s eyes even now, over a year since they first met. He was ashamed to say that, quite honestly, he’d never really forgotten about that short meeting with the prince. So when his father mentioned this invitation to spend Christmas in St. Petersburg, Yuuri had jumped at the opportunity. 

And it wasn’t strange. Not really. Yuuri’s family was close to the emperor, and Yuuri had been a part of the treaty negotiations. Of course the Russian royals invited some of the Japanese elite to this. They were celebrating over a year of peace since the end of the last war. And Yuuri had always been interested in international relations. Today, he was simply interested in a very, very physical and not-at-all professional daydream related to those relations. 

Prince Nikiforov’s hair was short now, cut against the nape of his neck instead of hanging long and swaying against his back. He looked more masculine today but no less beautiful. He chose a partner from one of the many women surrounding him, and they danced. Yuuri shouldn’t have come. This was pointless and stupid and self-destructive. He needed a drink. 

He gulped down a glass of champagne. Then another. And another. And four more for good measure. It still wasn’t enough. He took another glass and strode out of the ballroom. He wandered around the palace with all its baroque gold decoration and dazzling columns, and he walked idly, swaying slightly, until he was...well, he didn’t know where he was. But he had a magnificent view of the gardens. 

“ _Privet! Kto ty? Chto ty zdes’ delayesh?_ ” (Hey! Who are you? What are you doing here?) 

Yuuri turned at the sound of angry Russian. Prince Nikiforov stalked toward him, glaring. “I-I’m sorry,” Yuuri said quickly, stepping backward into a beam of moonlight that fell on the cold marble floor. He spoke in English rather than Russian, but it didn’t seem to matter because quite suddenly, Prince Nikiforov came to a stop. 

“You,” he whispered in English. “I know you.” 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 

Yuuri woke in an unfamiliar room. For a moment, he panicked, but no, he was merely in a guest room at the Peterhof Palace. The same guest room he had stayed in for the past two nights. His head pounded though. He must have drank too much at the ball. He couldn’t even remember anything after he left the dancing and wandered around and ran into Prince Nikiforov - 

Did that happen? No, no, it couldn’t have. It had to have been a dream. No, Yuuri must have simply gone back to his room and fallen asleep thinking of the prince. That was all. At least he hadn’t embarrassed himself the way he was wont to do when he drank. 

“Yuuri?” 

Yuuri flinched at the unexpected voice. Turning, he saw a horrible, terrifying, absolutely wonderful sight. 

Prince Victor Nikiforov. 

Shirtless. 

Lying in Yuuri’s bed. 

His long hair tangled. 

Rubbing sleep from his eyes like a toddler. 

Blinking at Yuuri with wide blue eyes. 

“Oh,” Yuuri whispered. And then he whispered a word that would have gotten him expelled from his boarding house in Cambridge. “Fuck.” 

Prince Nikiforov sat up, and Yuuri was relieved to see the prince still wore his trousers. Yuuri also wore trousers, he noticed now, so that seemed to be a good sign. “Should I leave?” the prince asked. “You were rather adamant that I stay last night.” 

“I was?” 

“Yes…” Prince Nikiforov drew out the word. “Do you not remember?” 

Yuuri shook his head. 

“Oh,” the prince said, and his expression grew distant. “Well, that-that’s a shame.” 

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Yuuri said quickly. “I hope I didn’t do anything to offend -” 

“No!” the prince interrupted. “No, nothing! It was...delightful.” The prince smiled suddenly, and Yuuri’s heart stopped. He had thought before that Prince Nikiforov’s polite smile to the ladies at the ball had been spectacular, but he saw now how that smile was nothing at all. The prince’s smile at this moment was so bright, so radiant, that 

Yuuri felt he was looking into the sun. “You may call me Victor,” the prince confided. 

“I will,” Yuuri whispered. 

Victor gripped his hands. “Wonderful. Say it, won’t you?” 

Yuuri’s face flushed. “Victor.” 

“Yuuri.” 

There was a silence, a heart-racing, breathless silence, as Yuuri stared for too long into eyes that were not one color but many. They were the blue of a mountain lake and the blue of the deepest sea. They were cerulean and lapis and turquoise and sapphire. They even had flecks of gold like the sun itself was in Victor and shone out of him. Victor spoke to him with a voice like the song of angels. “I want to see you again.” 

And Yuuri drew back. And reality crashed in. And he stood and shook his head and covered his face and wished that all this were a dream. “No,” he whispered. “No, we can’t.” 

“Please, Yuuri. You’re amazing. I want to know everything there is to know about you.” 

Yuuri shook his head. He couldn’t stop shaking his head. “No, no, I’m sorry. No.” 

Victor rose from the bed, and Yuuri had to force himself not to look at the muscles that were on display as Victor approached him. “Yuuri, it will be all right. We’ll be quiet; no one has to know. It’s tolerated in your country, isn’t it? I researched - ” 

Yuuri stepped back, and his back collided with a wall. “Has-has to know what?” he asked, trying and failing to force an expression of calm confusion. “There’s nothing to know. I’m not...I’m-I’m not…” 

“Yuuri,” Victor whispered. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Yuuri shook his head. “You need to leave.” 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 

**St. Petersburg, Russia, January 1907**

“Vitya, you’re pathetic.” 

Victor raised his eyes from his glass of vodka and looked up at Yakov Feltsman, the caretaker of his St. Petersburg mansion. Victor travelled so often he rarely lived there, but now, reveling in his tragedy, he had not left the couch in a number of days. Instead, despondent, he lounged in a silk robe, drank copious amounts of vodka, ate French pastries, petted his dog until she wandered off out of boredom, and waited for a letter from Yuuri Katsuki confessing his torrential emotions and the heartbreak he felt over their one perfect night of bonding...which Yuuri didn’t even remember. 

Yakov thrust a letter in Victor’s face. “From your cousin.” 

With a mournful sigh at the injustices of the world, Victor opened the letter from his dear cousin Yuri Plisetsky. He was in Paris now apparently as part of his grand tour through Europe, which he did not appreciate nearly as much as he - 

_Paris._

Yuuri was in Paris. He’d told Victor all about it in that glorious night of conversation. Victor set aside his vodka and rushed to his writing desk. Perhaps the universe did care about him. 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 

**Paris, France, February 1907**

Paris was a wonderful city for melancholy. Particularly in the rain. Yuuri’s apartment was perfectly located with a view of the Eiffel Tower. He didn’t understand why the locals hated it. Particularly when heavy raindrops were falling down his window as he gazed at the tower on the banks of the Seine. Perfect. 

And then the perfection was disrupted by someone pounding on his door. Yuuri turned, confused. Who would be visiting him? Especially on a rainy day in Paris. With a sigh, Yuuri stood, straightened his waistcoat, and opened the door. 

A blond blur forced his way into the apartment, followed by a hulking brute of a man. “Um, hello,” Yuuri said, looking between the two unexpected, unknown guests. “I’m sorry, who are you?” 

The blond, a young man Yuuri saw now, glared at him and thrust a letter forward. “My stupid cousin wants to have dinner with you.” 

“Your...cousin? Do I know you?” Yuuri looked back at the other man who had now closed the door to the apartment. He was much taller than Yuuri, and muscular, and intimidating. 

“Victor Nikiforov!” 

Yuuri flinched. “What?” 

“My cousin. Victor. You know him, right?” 

“Yes,” Yuuri said. “You-you said he...dinner? Is he...does he...he wants to see me?” 

The blond rolled his eyes. “ _Sacre dieu_ , asshole, you’re so pathetic I can see why he likes you.” He thrust the letter forward again, and Yuuri took it this time. 

He brushed his fingers over the beautiful lettering on the envelope. _Yuuri Katsuki._ Yuuri’s name had never looked so beautiful to him. He looked up, a blush coloring his cheeks. “He likes me?” 

Rolling his eyes, the blond flipped up his middle finger and pushed the tall, silent man out the door and back into the rain. Yuuri took the letter to his writing desk and tore it open. 

_Dear Mr. Katsuki,_

_Given our most recent meeting, I will not presume to call you by your given name. I regret that we could not speak further at Yuletide and that you seemed to remember so little of the conversation we did have. If you are not opposed, I should like to dine with you this Friday evening at eight p.m. sharp at La Tour d’Argent. It is a favorite among my family; there is a rumor that my ancestor Peter I dined there with Louis XV in 1717. As such, I hope to present you with a royal apology for any pain I may have caused you. I assure you that I have no intentions save for strengthening the diplomatic relations between our two countries._

_Yours respectfully,_

_V. Nikiforov_

Yuuri copied out the hotel address Victor listed under his name, and he withdrew a sheet of parchment from the stack he kept at the ready. His reply was short, merely a confirmation that he was willing to meet. He feared that saying anything else would give away feelings that he dared not reveal. 

Japan had never been so opposed to sodomy as the Western nations, but the most accepted relations were always master-student. The life Yuuri wanted was not a common one even then. Two adult men were impossible. At the very least, it would be expected that the relationship would be kept quiet and that each man would have his own wife and children. But Yuuri didn’t want that. And, of course, attitudes were changing in Japan. _Nanshoku_ , as it was called, was falling out of practice. 

But that didn’t matter really. Not with Victor. Yuuri would meet him, and he would let himself imagine impossible futures. But nothing could ever really come of it. Even if Victor did truly like him, which was doubtful, Yuuri couldn’t fathom how a cousin of the Russian tsar could ever be with the son of a Japanese businessman. Two years ago, their countries were at war! A romance between Yuuri and Victor was impossible for a thousand reasons. 

But dinner was harmless. 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 

**Paris, France, March 1907**

Victor’s foot tapped under the table where he feigned calm, waiting for Yuuri to arrive. They had met three times since his first invitation, always for dinner, nothing more, where they made small talk and very little more. When the conversation became too personal, Yuuri changed the topic or made an excuse to leave. Still it was pleasant, and Yuuri was intriguing. 

Though he could not be sure, it seemed that spring in Paris and weekly meetings with Yuuri had eased his melancholy. They had dined at some of the finest restaurants in Paris, but this evening, Victor had invited Yuuri to a less established place with lower standards. Its appeal lay in the fact that it was on the first floor of Victor’s hotel. Victor was not sure what he intended to do exactly, but it did give him the opportunity to invite Yuuri up to look at a painting or have a drink. In a more private setting, it may be possible to speak of personal matters and to truly get to know one another. 

Yuuri stepped through the door then, pausing to thank the doorman, and Victor’s heart skipped a beat. He was beautiful, his hair windswept but his clothes immaculate. He had dressed for dinner in a tailored suit that fit snugly against his waist. Yuuri had confessed once that he was embarrassed by the weight he had gained recently, but secretly Victor loved it, loved how soft and doughy it made Yuuri look. He rushed to the table now, coattails flying behind him as older diners sent disapproving glares at the young man in a rush. He sat across from Victor and, for a moment, flashed an unguarded smile which disappeared as he lowered his head to look at the menu. His cheeks were colored by a faint blush. Victor reminded himself that, in all likelihood, the blush was due to Yuuri’s rush or the cool evening air, but he let himself imagine for a moment that the blush was because of him. 

They dined on uninspired mussels and a disappointing coq au vin in which the wine drowned out all other flavors. Victor endured it though for the pleasure of talking with Yuuri even about such trivialities as the singer performing in the recent production of _La Traviata_ and whether or not Yuuri would return to Japan to see the Tokyo Industrial Exhibition this summer. When the meal was finally over, Victor cleared his throat. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Katsuki. The food was abysmal, but I believe I have an excellent Cabernet in my rooms upstairs if you would like to join me for a glass.” Yuuri’s expression faltered. “You’re staying here?” he asked. 

“I am.” Victor paused, waiting to see what Yuuri would say. When the silence stretched too long, he added. “The vintage is 1890. It’s very good.” 

Yuuri lowered his eyes and wet his lips. Victor came close to an aneurysm watching how Yuuri’s tongue darted out for that one brief moment. “I should...probably retire soon.” 

“Oh,” Victor said. 

But Yuuri made no move to stand or say something else. His eyes jumped to Victor’s for a moment before locking again on his plate. “Unless, of course, there was something you wanted to discuss? My-my father, I’m sure, would love to establish some business contacts in Russia or...something like that.” The last words came out in a whisper and were accompanied by flushed cheeks. 

Victor leapt on the suggestion. “Yes, of course! I think it would be a most productive conversation.” Before Yuuri could change his mind, Victor called to the waiter and arranged for the meal to be put on his tab. He led Yuuri upstairs then. The hotel was a new construction, unlike many in Paris, with an elevator that used masterful hydraulics to carry them to Victor’s apartment. Victor had not thought before of showing Yuuri the view, but he wished he had for the awe on Yuuri’s face when he caught his first glimpse of the city through partially open curtains. 

Then, as Victor’s beloved Makkachin jumped off the bed to greet them, Yuuri’s smile grew even wider, and he knelt to pet the dog, speaking softly in Japanese. Victor knelt as well and brushed his hand through Makkachin’s curls, watching how Yuuri adored the dog. “I had one like this,” Yuuri said with a wistful smile. “Vicchan.” His smile faded at the name, and he leaned his head against Makkachin. It was a breathtakingly emotional display, Victor thought, from someone who was so careful to hide what he felt. He did not tell Yuuri that he already knew about Vicchan, that Yuuri had told him countless stories on that night in Petersburg. 

After a moment, Yuuri drew back and tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear. “Um, I suppose we should discuss...business?” 

“Right,” Victor said, standing. “Yes.” 

Yuuri stood as well, and his eyes wandered again to the partially obscured view of Paris beyond Victor’s curtains. 

“Come,” Victor said, taking Yuuri by the hand and leading him onto the balcony. Discussion could wait a few minutes; it would give him time to think of something to say. Paris lay spread before them like a sea of glittering lights. The distant hum of conversation and music warmed the cool spring evening, and boats full of laughter floated up and down the Seine. Victor checked his watch. Five minutes to nine. Perfect. 

He stepped inside to pour the wine for Yuuri and himself, and they stood in silence for a few moments until, at the stroke of nine, the Eiffel Tower lit up with twenty thousand electric lights. Yuuri gasped, and Victor watched him, watched how the soft smile lit Yuuri’s face from within as he sipped his wine and gazed out at the city. 

“It’s beautiful,” Yuuri whispered. “I came here in 1889 when it was built, you know. I was very young; I don’t remember much. But I remember seeing the tower at night, not like this, of course, but I was stunned. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.” 

Victor smiled. “I was here as well. It was a masterpiece.” 

Yuuri turned to face him, and he appeared to be like some angel of light, his face haloed by the shimmering beauty of Paris. If Yuuri were someone else - _anyone_ else - Victor knew what he would have done. He would have taken the wine from Yuuri’s fingers and set it aside. He would have run his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, and he would have kissed him with the passion of Tristan for Isolde or Rusalka for her prince. 

He would have kissed Yuuri with his heart pounding like a hummingbird racing from delight to delight. He would have kissed Yuuri and felt the surging fall of danger in his chest as though he had leapt off a cliff and was diving, blind, towards whatever future was to follow. He would have kissed Yuuri until all the stars fell from the sky and until the lights of Paris were extinguished in the dark of history. And in the darkness, he would have kissed Yuuri and whispered a three-word confession that he yearned so desperately to admit. 

But Yuuri was not someone else. Yuuri was the beautiful, inspiring, amazing young man who had danced with Victor in the halls of Peterhof and had spoken so eloquently of his life and his passions that Victor had been convinced after one night that he was in love. And yet, the following morning, Yuuri hadn’t remembered and had instead refused Victor’s entreaties. 

So Victor could not kiss him. No matter how much he wanted to. 

“Shall we go in to talk?” Yuuri asked now, and Victor forced a smile as he nodded. 

Yuuri took a seat on the long, comfortable couch that Victor loved. And Victor forced himself to sit opposite Yuuri in a rigid, stiff-backed chair as Makkachin leapt onto the couch and placed her head in Yuuri’s lap. 

Victor took a long drink of his wine. 

Yuuri talked about his father’s business and considered how Russian contacts might be useful. 

Victor heard none of it but nodded the entire time. 

Yuuri poured himself a second glass of wine and was quiet. 

Was Victor supposed to say something? Shit, he hadn’t been listening. He tried to think of a suitable reply to whatever Yuuri might have asked, but instead, what came from his mouth was: “Would you like to go to the opera next Friday?” 

Yuuri blinked at him. 

Victor waited. His heart was racing. 

Yuuri took a drink of wine. 

“They’re showing _Carmen_. I have a box; it’s got an excellent view. Adelina Patti once threw me a rose at the end of a show. She’s really the reason I love opera today since I was only seventeen at the time and there out of duress. She’s much older than me of course, but after the rose, I had to meet her backstage, and she invited me to her hotel, and -” With some effort, Victor forced himself to stop rambling. He drained his wine. 

“I’d love to go.” 

Victor stared at Yuuri. “You would?” 

Yuuri nodded. 

“Oh,” Victor said, unable to suppress the smile that took over his face. “That’s wonderful.” 

Yuuri flushed. “There’s also, well, I mean, I agreed to come up here because, um, I was hoping to discuss, um, whether or not you are or are not, um, attracted to...men?” 

Victor’s mouth was dry. “I am.” 

“I am as well,” Yuuri confessed. 

There was a moment of silence. Finally, Victor spoke. “May I sit with you?” 

Yuuri gave a nod, and Victor joined him on the couch. He refilled his wine glass and took a drink. Some part of him was slightly miffed by the fact that he was drinking such excellent Cabernet to calm his nerves and was not truly appreciating it. But the rest of Victor needed the wine to get through the lingering silence. 

“Prince Nikiforov - ” Yuuri started. 

“Victor. Please.” 

“Victor, um…” 

Yuuri trailed off, and Victor needed to fill the silence. “Or Vitya, if you prefer. It’s a nickname of sorts. It’s what my family calls me. I suppose friends might as well, though I don’t have anyone whom I am so close to -” 

“Victor,” Yuuri interrupted him. “Please give me a moment.” 

“Right, of course.” 

Yuuri wet his lips. Swallowed. Wiped sweaty hands on his pants. Took a drink of wine. And another. And drained the glass. And looked at Victor. “I should very much like to kiss you.” 

“You would?” 

“Yes,” Yuuri said, though he had dropped his eyes from Victor’s. “I-I’m sorry. I can go if you’d like me to or -” 

Victor didn’t let him finish the sentence. He threaded his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, brushing against the soft skin of his temple. His lips crashed against Yuuri’s and suddenly Yuuri’s arms were around his neck. Victor heard the sound of a glass breaking, but he couldn’t be bothered to care as he kissed Yuuri with the ardent passion that had been building since the day they met. When he stopped finally, gasping for air, Yuuri was under him on the couch, breathless, flushed, and disheveled. It was such a beautiful combination that Victor kissed him again, and Yuuri made no protest. 

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Yuuri mumbled between kisses, “to have an affair. Just for a few months, of course. We couldn’t -” 

“Stop talking,” Victor said, nipping at Yuuri’s ear. 

His eyes caught Yuuri’s for a second, and he lost himself in the warm brown of those irises. Brown might be his favorite color, Victor realized. They breathed in unison - deep, wavering breaths counting out the seconds of life and all the precious, stolen moments they might have together. 

Yuuri’s voice was a whisper when he spoke; his words were meant only for Victor. “Okay. I trust you.” 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 

**Paris, France, August 1907**

Yuuri had never felt the way he did with Victor. He had thought that perhaps if he allowed himself to indulge his imaginings of the Russian prince that the desires would soon fade. Yet, somehow, his feelings had grown only stronger. 

Victor’s touch set his skin on fire, and his eyes made Yuuri melt when Victor looked at him under candlelight at the end of a meal. When they went to the opera, which they did often, Yuuri preferred to watch Victor rather than the show itself. Victor always chose the tragedies even though they made him cry, and he would talk for hours afterwards about everything from the choreography and composition to the facial expressions of the performers and the details of their costumes. Yuuri preferred the ballet, since as a child, he had taken some lessons and imagined dancing with a troupe until his father forbade the notion. When Victor learned of this, however, he took Yuuri to see _Swan Lake_ , which Yuuri loved though Victor insisted that a Russian corps would have performed it better. 

Yuuri had, by accident, revealed parts of himself to Victor that he kept hidden from the rest of the world. It had started with small things - a confession that he missed the food in Japan and another that he did not really want to follow his father in the real estate business. Victor knew that Yuuri wore glasses to read and that he carried a small pair of pince-nez with him everywhere he went because his eyesight was so bad. And Victor loved each morsel of information, even when Yuuri tried to hide. On a day when Yuuri was too lost in the worries of his own mind to meet Victor as they had planned, Victor appeared at Yuuri’s door carrying, impossibly, katsudon that he had attempted to make himself. It was nothing like Yuuri’s mother’s, but the gesture alone set Yuuri to tears. Victor had stayed in his apartment that night, and they talked and ate and drank until Yuuri fell asleep on the couch, wrapped in Victor’s arms. 

When summer came, they escaped the city with trips to Normany and Marseille. Victor loved the old castles, while Yuuri liked to wander along the coast watching the fishermen who filled their nets just the same as the fishermen in Japan. They took a train to Italy with such minimal planning that Victor’s usually indulgent bodyguards had chased them down and hauled the pair of them back to Paris before they even crossed the border. They danced and drank together in the streets on Bastille Day and in the evening watched fireworks explode in the sky as champagne tickled their lips. 

These past months had been the most wonderful in Yuuri’s memory, and he was certain that when he was old, it was this summer that he would reflect on to know that he had lived. Yuuri had had affairs before though they were few and far between and never lasted long. What he had now with Victor was like nothing else, and it pained him to know that the summer was coming to a close. 

They had been together for five wonderful months, and Yuuri knew that soon, inevitably, Victor would tire of him. Yuuri was not so special as to deserve all this, and, in any case, it could never last. Victor was nearing thirty; he would be expected to marry soon. As would Yuuri. And they would have to go home - Victor to Russia and Yuuri to Japan. This summer would remain in Yuuri’s mind as a golden age, and he would think of it fondly for years to come. 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 

He met Victor in the Tuileries in the late morning. They strolled and talked and kissed where they could not be seen. In the afternoon, they visited the Louvre, and after dinner, they walked the streets of Paris that they had come to know so well. They stopped halfway across the Pont Alexandre, named for one of Victor’s ancestors and considered one of the most beautiful bridges in the city. It was a-light this evening with small fires burning in each of the two dozen intricate lamp posts that crowned its sides. There was fog on the Seine and the first bite of autumn in the air. Music played somewhere in the distance, and Yuuri could just make out a few bright stars that dared to shine despite the electric bright of the city. 

“Yuuri,” Victor purred, facing him as they stood against the side of the bridge, looking at the city that spread to either side of them. “I think it’s time I told you: I am in love with you.” 

Yuuri shut his eyes and gripped the firm cool railing of the bridge. “Oh?” he asked, telling himself to remain calm. He knew what Victor would say. _I love you, but…_ And he would be right; they could not be together. 

“Yes,” Victor said. “And I have a small gift for you.” 

Yuuri looked at Victor, confused. What gift could Victor have to give him? 

“Hold out your hand.” 

Slowly, Yuuri extended his hand, palm up. Victor took Yuuri’s hand in his, the long, smooth fingers brushing like kisses against his skin as Victor turned his hand over. For a moment, Yuuri’s hand hovered between them as Victor reached into his coat pocket to reveal a thin gold band. Yuuri’s breath caught in his throat as Victor slipped the ring onto his finger. 

“What-what is this?” 

“A ring,” Victor stated with a smile. It was not his usual open-mouthed grin but a shier expression with a soft blush on his cheeks. “I love you, and I want to be with you. Not just for now but for a long time. For our lives. Forever.” 

Yuuri stared at him. “Vitya, we can’t.” 

“We can’t marry, yes, but we can still be together. I have a country estate in Russia that I know you would adore. It would be cold in the winters, but we could travel. I’ve always wanted to see the world, but I didn’t want to go alone. We could travel together and abide together and it would be wonderful. You agree, don’t you?” 

For a moment, Yuuri said nothing, didn’t even move. He imagined it - living with Victor, dancing with him at the next Christmas ball in Russia, taking Victor to Japan and America, travelling the world on luxury steamers, riding camels in Egypt and elephants in India. But then, slowly, with the action breaking his heart, Yuuri shook his head. 

“We would not be accepted, Vitya. Not in Russia nor France nor America nor even Japan. People would wonder why we do not marry, and they would make assumptions and shun us from society. You’ve said already that your uncle despises people like us!” 

“Well then _fuck_ my uncle!” Victor shouted. A passing couple startled at the exclamation, and Victor tipped his hat to the woman. “ _Pardon, Madame._ ” The woman and her escort both glared at him before passing on. 

“Yuuri,” he whispered, focusing again. “Please. I cannot live without you. I will renounce my title. I will live in obscurity. I will dress as a woman if you ask me to! But I beg of you: Do not ask me to live a life without the only person who makes me feel that life is worth living.” 

Yuuri removed the ring from his finger. He held it a moment. “Believe me, Victor, if I could this moment take you into a church and marry you, I would not hesitate. But I cannot. And...much as I hate it, I have a duty to my family and to my country. It is not common for a Japanese man to walk the streets of Paris or New York, dressed as I am, dining at fine restaurants every night. Like it or not, how I act determines what people think of my country. And there is my family as well because they expect me to marry and to take over my father’s company, and I will do those things because I love my family and I want what is best for them even though it means that I must sacrifice my own desires.” 

Pausing to brush away the tears that came to his eyes, Yuuri met Victor’s silent gaze. “I love you, Vitya. You have given me the greatest happiness and shown me the most profound love, and I will treasure that. But I think it may be best...if we do not meet again.” He lowered his eyes from Victor’s and held out the gold ring. 

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, gently, Victor folded Yuuri’s fingers over the ring and pressed his lips to Yuuri’s, just once and only for a moment. “Keep the ring. Remember me.” 

“I will,” Yuuri promised. He raised his eyes to Victor’s one more time. Every fiber of his being yearned to pull Victor into an embrace, to kiss him and take back everything he’d said. But Yuuri did not move. 

Victor pressed his lips together, looking like he might say something. But then, inevitably, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the night. 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 

**Chicago, Illinois, November 1908**

Yuuri Katsuki, by all accounts, was the darling of the Chicago social scene. He was young, educated, handsome, and - most important of all - dreadfully rich. The Katsuki heir had come to America for his studies at Harvard, but American life had left an impact on him. Allegedly, he lived in Chicago for the business contacts, who did prove useful to his family’s business, but anyone who knew Yuuri knew that he stayed for the decadent, modern American lifestyle. He could have lived just as easily in London or Paris, but it was Chicago that stayed with him through all his travels, and it was to Chicago he had returned on the eve of his twenty-third birthday when the rest of his world fell apart. 

Approaching twenty-four now, Katsuki was considered one of the most eligible bachelors around, even in the social class in which such interactions were usually frowned upon. But for the Ketsuki fortune and connections to the Japanese royal family, every avaricious mother suddenly learned to overlook race in the interest of marriage and money. Katsuki, however, appeared to be a confirmed bachelor. He danced splendidly with every woman who would take him for a partner - which was no small number - but at the end of each dance, he would merely kiss the woman’s hand, thank her, and move on to the next hovering maiden. 

Victor knew all this from what some might call an obsession with American gossip rags. His cousin, Yuri Plisetsky, termed it “a stupid infatuation with an asshole who rejected you,” and the caretaker of his house, Yakov, described it in a similar vein as “demeaning and pathetic.” Victor, however, could not think of anything but Yuuri Katsuki. And it was for that reason that in the last year, Victor had done several things he otherwise would not have. 

After leaving Yuuri in Paris, Victor had compiled a list of his assets in Russia and discreetly used or sold them to amass a small fortune in a variety of banks in America and Europe. He had then arranged a private meeting with his uncle during which he renounced his title and Russian citizenship then proceeded to enumerate the details of his uncle’s policies which most frustrated him. After being forcibly removed from the palace, Victor, accompanied by a disapproving Yakov, had taken a train and a boat to Japan where he expressed enough interest in investment opportunities that he eventually met a man named Toshiya Katsuki. Victor stayed several months in Japan, learning the language and how to cook the traditional foods that Yuuri liked, and, when he had purchased a remote piece of property for his own use rather than investment, he travelled to California. 

The news of Yuuri Katsuki was far easier to come across here, and Victor filled twenty pages of a letter to Yuri Plisetsky detailing all the new information. Yuri’s reply had made liberal use of expletives. Victor rested for a time in California as he did not wish to startle Yuuri too quickly with a proposal that - like his previous one - was poorly thought out. But when Yakov had eventually found and furnished a house for Victor, it was with a mix of elation and nerves that Victor boarded an eastbound train. 

He arrived at the Chicago mansion late in the evening and, after dining, took Makkachin for a walk down the lovely gas-lit street. She had travelled more than she was used to in these past months, but now they would rest here for a time. Yuuri was known to attend parties, and Victor had already received invitations to several. People were eager to meet a wealthy Russian related to the tsar. He had considered several ways to introduce himself to Yuuri and provide an explanation, but he had not yet decided on the best method. Perhaps he would - 

“Vitya?” 

Victor came to a stop on the sidewalk and turned towards the house he was passing. It was a three-story brick construction with identical chimneys providing texture where they climbed up the front of the house. The center entrance boasted a columned semi-circle where one could wait at the door. Above it, on the second floor, was a small balcony with double doors leading to the room inside. Yuuri Katsuki stood on the balcony, dressed in night clothes with a robe clutched around him. It was casual and so simple as to be almost improper, but it was the most alluring costume Victor had ever seen. 

Makkachin ran towards the house, barking excitedly as she recognized Yuuri. “Hush, Makka,” Victor said. “Yuuri - Mr. Katsuki - I…” He found he didn’t know what to say. How was he supposed to explain walking his dog in front of Yuuri’s private house in Chicago after Yuuri told him that they should not see each other? 

There was a long silence. 

“I’ll be down in a moment,” Yuuri said suddenly. “Wait. Please.” 

Victor waited. He couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. Yuuri was here! He’d known for months that Yuuri was in Chicago, but it was real now. This was Yuuri’s house, and Yuuri was coming to speak to him. He was going to talk to Yuuri for the first time in more than a year. He had heard Yuuri’s voice again, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. 

And then the door opened, and Yuuri was lit by the liquid gold that poured from his house. Yuuri descended the steps like a god deigning to come down from the heavens. He wore a blue robe, velvet, that matched the slippers on his feet. His hair was wet and combed back over his head, but his expression was guarded. Makkachin ran to the gate that marked the edge of Yuuri’s property, and Yuuri allowed her entry, kneeling to greet the eager dog who licked him in the face. 

For what felt like an eternity, Yuuri paid attention only to Makkachin, and this time, Victor could understand the words he murmured in Japanese. _Cute. Good. Beautiful girl. I missed you._ Then, slowly, Yuuri raised his eyes to Victor and spoke again in English. “What are you doing here?” 

“I...I missed you,” Victor said. But that wasn’t it; that wasn’t enough. He wet his lips, worrying suddenly that he might have forgotten the Japanese he had practiced with such effort. “ _Aishiteru yo._ ” (I am deeply in love with you) 

Yuuri was silent. Victor waited, anxious. He had learned that this phrase was not used so commonly in Japan as elsewhere. It was an expression of deep love, one that was rarely confessed, but one that Victor needed to say. “I love you,” he whispered in English in case he had said it wrong the first time. “I know you ended it with me and that you didn’t want to see me again, but you are the light of my life and I-I had to try just once to see you and-and tell you...and...could we go to dinner? Please? I want to explain, and I-I can’t find the words…” 

Yuuri stood. “You came to Chicago?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you...you’re staying nearby?” 

“Yes.” 

Yuuri walked forward until he was one step away from Victor, looking up into his eyes. “I’ve tried to forget you, but I can’t. I...I want...if there were any way that we could be together, Vitya…” 

“There is!” Victor said quickly. “I have my house here, just over there actually, and I renounced my title in Russia, and I have money to live off, and I bought a place in Japan and met your family...I’m not explaining this well, I know, but we can be together even if we can’t live together. I just need you in my life, and I cannot live with anything less. I know you’re afraid, but -” 

“No,” Yuuri interrupted. “I-I feel the same way. I have spent a year dreaming of you. I wrote to my parents and told them that I do not think I could ever love a woman, and I told my father that I don’t want to work in his business. They’ve given me their blessing, Vitya. If you are willing...I want to try again.” Victor laughed a little. “ _If_ I am willing? Yuuri, I have never been more willing in my life.” 

............................................................................................................................................................................................................................... 

**Washington D.C, United States, December 1909**

Yuuri had not understood that it was possible to be this happy. It had been just over a year since he had reconnected with Victor, and they had been inseparable ever since. They arrived at parties separately but spent the whole time together. When they travelled, they booked passage individually, and it was only by chance that they continually found themselves in the same sleeper cars. They each kept a small household with discreet and understanding staff that did not remark on it if Victor did not return from Yuuri’s house for a few nights or vice versa. 

They stood together now at the edge of the White House ballroom while beautiful couples danced in celebration of the Christmas season. President Taft welcomed numerous diplomats and businessmen, and it made sense that they would both attend. As they both kept a house in Chicago, it was not surprising either that they should know one another. And if their hands touched once or twice in the evening as Victor leaned forward to whisper in Yuuri’s ear with a smile, no one paid it any mind. 

No one remarked on it when Yuuri pressed a kiss to Victor’s cheek under the mistletoe. No one saw the shared glances and lingering touches. And no one remarked upon it when the two men left early within minutes of each other to walk along the Potomac and kiss alone under the stars. The future was uncertain, and the details were hazy, but Yuuri knew that everything would be all right.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story! 
> 
> For anyone interested, the title of the story comes from the poem "Vitae Summa Brevis Spem Nos Vetat Incohare Longam" by Ernest Dowson. The poem itself is not in Latin; Dowson is just pretentious. It's not the happiest poem, but it is beautiful, so I recommend reading it!
> 
> Kudos and comments nourish my soul, so drop a note if you feel like it!


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